


Healing the Scars of Your Past

by Tamuril2



Category: Original Work
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-11
Updated: 2019-09-04
Packaged: 2019-09-16 15:33:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 10
Words: 7,323
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16956669
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tamuril2/pseuds/Tamuril2
Summary: So, I've decided to chronicle my journey of healing from multiple rapes. It's to both help myself unload, and also to show people that, yes, you can heal from these horrible type of things. I probably won't get very graphic about the actual thing, although that could change - so watch for individual warnings in chapters.Updates will be sporadic, but I hope this will give hope to others - as well as myself.





	1. The Beginning

In the dark of the night – yet more and more in the light of day – when the shadows close in and wrap their arms around her soul, she thinks ‘ _this is all I ever was, this broken shell of a person, I_ _am nothing more than what She made me_ ’. _All the laughter, the bubbles, the joy, it was only a façade to hide the ugly, ugly scars.’_  
   
A façade to cover up the horrible truth; that she is tainted, shattered, and ruined, before her husband ever even got the chance to touch her, to be with her.

That she can barely stand for him to touch her most days.

The terrible fact; that she’ll never get out, that she is trapped forever, in this dark world of despair and screams.  
   
Screams that enter her mind more often than not – their tune, a familiar croon to her; a song that she’s always heard, but never acknowledged. A harmony that sinks its sharp claws into her mind, burrowing deeper and deeper, tearing into tender, raw flesh with an angry hunger all too fresh and known.  
   
She shies away from that branding darkness; too afraid to accept the symphony of pain, because it will somehow envelop her. She knows it will. Take over all of her, until there is nothing more to behold but pain, sorrow, and so much anger.  
   
And then where will she be?  
   
What will she be?  
   
What person will want her, if she lets loose this monster?  
   
This anger and clawing pain that screams for release.  
   
She tries, tries so hard, to keep it at bay, to go about her business as if nothing is wrong; as if shopping for food doesn’t make her want to rip her own throat out, as if she’s this strong, beautiful person her husband somehow still sees. But, it’s a lie. She’s unleashed this Dragon of Shadows, this Catastrophe of Unyielding Anguish. The lid has exploded open and no amount of care and nails is going to close it again.  
   
_It’s a good thing,_ they tell her. _You’re finally dealing with all this._  
   
_You’re so strong. So brave._  
   
_Am I?_ She wants to ask. _Am I dealing with this? I hide, I fake, I pretend to be brave, when what I really want to do is stuff all this closed again, to ignore this, to curl into a little ball and scream_ _and scream and scream until I can’t scream any more, and then continue screaming._  
   
_Am I dealing with this?_ She wants to shout. _I won’t ask God to take it away. I won’t. But I don’t want this. I never wanted this. I SAID NO!!_  
   
And that is what hurts the most.  
   
She said ‘no’, and it meant nothing.  
   
Nothing at all.  
   
She said ‘no’, multiple times, in so many, many ways, and none of it stopped _Her_.  
   
_She_ took what _She_ wanted from her, and then ran away, leaving her to deal with aftermath.  
   
The consequences where everyone blamed her for the stolen goods, for the hurt feelings, and fear.  
   
And not once did any of them ask.  
   
Not her brother, who says ‘ _you accused me of vile things and hurt me.’_  
   
He does not ask ‘ _why? What made you do that?’_  
   
So, she doesn’t tell him, _‘she was so powerful, so overwhelming, and made it clear that if I didn’t blame you, she’d kill you. I had to, to save you. I knew you’d be strong enough to endure it, that no one would believe me. Please, please, forgive me, but I didn’t want you to die.’_  
   
Not her sisters, who say, ‘ _she belittled us, she made us feel small, you let her send us to our rooms as if she had a right to. Why did you never speak out? Why did you let her? We trusted you.’_  
   
And she wants to cry out, ‘ _I’m sorry. I wanted to say something. But I couldn’t. You never had to be around her every day and night. I did. I had to face her wrath, her anger, her screams, the things thrown, the things smashed, the words said so softly into my ear while she hugged me tight to her. She accused you and hurt you in front of others, but me she held to herself and hurt alone, in the dark, in shadows, where on one could see. I feared to say anything, because then she might hurt you like she did me, and I couldn’t let that happen, so I said nothing. I let you stay in the light, because the shadows hurt so much more. I’m sorry. I’m so very sorry. Please, forgive me.’_  
   
Her mother looks at her as if she is something she can’t stand to acknowledge, and says nothing. Not when everyone else throws accusations at her. Not when she tries to stammer out a few apologies. Only months later, does her mother say a few sentences to her. ‘ _She took the ring that your father gave me. It was my most favorite memory of him. She took the car. She hurt everyone.’_  
   
Her mother doesn’t say, ‘ _And you did nothing. You said nothing._ ’  
   
Her mother doesn’t have to.  
   
She hears it anyway – in those few sentences, but especially in the way she does nothing to defend her from the others.  
   
_‘I’m sorry!’_ She wants to shriek. _‘I didn’t know what to do. She threatened you, She threatened anyone I so much as looked at. She told me awful, awful things. She hurt me so badly, and said She’d kill you all if I said anything. She had a gun. I couldn’t say anything. Nothing. Not when She held your lives like that. I hated what She forced on me, but I loved you too much to stop Her. Better that She touched me, raped me, then my youngest sister. My beautiful, innocent, sweet Aileen. Better than She threw things at me and called me horrible things, then my other sisters. My elegant Sofia and my resilient Rainn, so bright and proud in their youth. Better that She bruised me, then stabbed my mother. My Mother, who is my only living parent, who I would do anything to keep. Better than She took my car, my things, then have Her do something to my two little brothers’ cars and have them die in some ‘accident’. My brothers who are such pillars in our family, who hold things up that even they don’t know about._  
   
_Please,_ ’ she wants to cry, _‘I’m sorry, I’m so very, very sorry, but I don’t know what else I could’ve done.’_  
   
And so, the darkness grows in her, consumes her bit by bit, until she can barely get out of bed, until she wants to just hug herself and cry and cry and scream.  
   
She wants to shout all this to the heavens, to spit it in everyone’s face.  
   
_This is what She made me_ , she wants to shriek. _Aren’t I pretty? Aren’t I strong? Don’t you see me bleeding? Can’t you see the cracks? How I’m falling apart at the seams? Why do I have to strong, to be brave? Why can’t someone else be that? Why can’t I fall down and not get up? Why can’t I stay down for a while and let someone else pick up the pieces? Why do I have to do this?_  
   
But she never says any of that.  
   
Because no wants to hear those things.  
   
They want to hear how she’s glad to go to Counseling.  
   
How it’s good for her to face these horrors at last.  
   
How going to Group Therapy so soon is what she wants.  
   
But it’s not.  
   
She wants none of it.  
   
She won’t ask God to take it away.  
   
But she will not say she wants this.  
   
Never.  
   
But she won’t ask for it gone either.  
   
Does that make her strange?  
   
Masochistic?  
   
Is drawing metaphorical cuts along her soul with each word not said any different than doing it in real life?  
   
Is drowning herself in hidden sorrow any less bad than jumping off a bridge?  
   
Is eating less food so as to stop the pain any worse than taking one too many pills?  
   
And she wonders, _what’s wrong with me? Why can’t I deal with this in a proper way? Why am I so wrong? What made Her look at me and see something She wanted? What did I do wrong, that encouraged Her? Why can’t I get better? Why am I so wrong? Do you want to hear about how She forced drugs into me so that I couldn’t fight back, but still feel and see everything She did to me? No, no you don’t. So, why pretend?_  
   
And she wonders, after all is said and done, what will be left?  
   
Who will be born from the ashes?  
   
And who will want what forms from the broken shadows?  
   
Certainly, God will.  
   
He alone holds together the shattered pieces of her Soul and cradles her like she’s some gift He won’t let go.  
   
She doesn’t understand that, but is too selfish to question it that deeply.  
   
He is infinite Good.  
   
Of course, He’ll want something so tainted and black as she.  
   
But what human will?  
   
When all the Anger, and Pain, and Screams are burned away, what carcass will be left decaying?  
   
What kind of rotting flesh will be left?  
   
And so, she goes on each day and tries not to think too much about all of it, because she knows, if she does, there will be no turning back. The Shadows will claim all of her and leave her exposed and vulnerable to everyone outside. And she’s too afraid to do that. She’s been hurt too many times. She’s too scared to trust that her husband is strong enough to hold her together, to keep her from doing something so very, very stupid.  
   
She doesn’t want to kill herself.  
   
But she does want it to stop.  
   
To end.  
   
She’s so very, very tired.  
   
So tired.  
   
So very, very tired.  
   
And yet it never stops, it never ends, it only crashes like waves against her Heart, chipping away at her resolve.  
   
And she wonders, _will there be anything left of me when this ends?_


	2. Of the End

_Can anyone ever be whole after something like this?_

 

It’s something she asks herself everyday now. Something that haunts her trembling footsteps. Everyone – from her husband, to her Counselor, to the people online – tell her she’s so strong, so brave, to tell people about this, to go to Counseling, to talk about it. _You’re making leaps and bounds, way beyond what we thought you would be,_ they tell her. Her husband says, _“you’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. I’m so proud of you”_ , as he hugs her to himself.

 

 _But I’m not proud of myself,_ she thinks, even as he hugs her.

 

She doesn’t feel proud of anything about this.

 

No, she looks in the mirror, into her mind, her memories, and sees only an ugly Truth and the horrible Effects that still impact her daily life.

 

Sees how she struggles to even go outside to pick up the mail.

 

How she can’t even stand to volunteer at the Hospice anymore, because to fake being okay is so tiring.

 

( _She’s even more tired than before…can’t she lie down and not get up?)_

How her heart flutters and freezes at the mere thought of grocery shopping by herself.

 

How she hates herself for that weakness.

 

She looks into the mirror every day, and most of them she almost sneers at herself. _I hate you,_ she almost says to her reflection. And she’s not even really sure why she wants to say that. She knows it wasn’t her fault…but…maybe…somewhere deep down…she doesn’t believe that.

 

 _We haven’t even started,_ she thinks, wanting to smash her head against the wall and scream, _and already I’m breaking apart. How stupid am I? How incredibly weak!_

She disgusts herself, quite honestly.

 

( _and, yes, she knows that’s wrong to feel, but there you are, she’s disgusted with herself_ )

 

She could have fought harder. She could have reached out, said something, anything – heck, called 911, said nothing, and let the police come to check at the suspicious, silent call.

 

But… _She_ threatened her family. Threatened anyone she so much as spent more than thirty seconds with.

 

 _That man was nice,_ She’d say to her. _That woman seemed to like you._

 

But what She really meant was _You’re attracted to him, aren’t you? That woman is prettier to you than I am._ (even though she’s never thought of any woman like that before or after) _You’re thinking of running away from me. Do that, and I’ll kill him, I’ll kill her, and their family and friends. And it’ll be your fault._

So, she didn’t say anything.

 

She kept silent.

 

 _I know people in Italian Mafia,_ She teased constantly, but there was always that certain gleam in her eye that said _I’m not joking. I will use that means, if you run. Everyone can be bought with money. No one will be able to keep you from me._

And that kind of power still scares her.

 

It’s what makes her afraid to go out in public alone, even to get the mail.

 

Yes, everyone says _She is a coward_ , but…there’s always going to be a **_But_** that no one seems to understand.

 

How could they?

 

They never had to feel those Hands touch them.

 

They never had to hear the vile, cruel Things screamed at them, as tools, books, anything was thrown at them.

 

They never had to silently cry because there was _no on_ e to turn to, no one to stop what was happening.

 

No one who could hear her breaking so slowly that by the time anyone thought something might be wrong, she was already throwing up in the shower and not even eating, not even sleeping.

 

And all this while her body was also slowly being torn apart by Lyme Disease.

 

Yet another thing She took advantage of.

 

For when she told Her ‘no’ one too many times, She took her to Physiatrists, forced her way somehow into every session, and then got Them to prescribe high dosage medicine that made her unable to fight those Touches.

 

So, no, everyone doesn’t understand.

 

At all.

 

They never had to fear that tonight might be the night that things went too far and they would die.

 

They’ve never started to hate themselves, and not know why.

 

They’ve never had nightmares so bad they wake you up, and you’re almost screaming, and you can’t quite remember what they were about, but It. Was. Bad.

 

They aren’t slowly remembering a dark figure leaning over you, holding you, touching you, and never, never, letting you go.

 

They’ve never wanted to be with their husband, but utterly failed to do that, because every intimate touch and caress is now tainted and only makes you think of Her and Pain.

 

 _I hate you,_ she thinks to her reflection. _You hide behind reading stories, embroidery, sewing, and smiling fake smiles. If you were really brave, you’d get it all out and move on already. But no, you’re a coward. You’re shying away from the Really Bad Memories, like the weakling you are. You’re hurting your husband, but that doesn’t matter enough to stop and get over this._

She ignores the tiny voice that reminds her husband told her he loved her more than any intimate thing she could give him. That he signed on for this and he’s not going anywhere. How could he not be hurt, by her even remotely comparing his actions to Hers? How can she not be scared, because he says he’s confident she’ll be well on her way to be healed in months, and she wants to ask “ _but what if I’m not? What then? Will you force me too, through guilt?_

 

And that’s yet another thing she hates herself for.

 

Her husband’s never once given her reason to think these things about him, to doubt him. Not once.

 

But…she’s been burned too many times by people who were supposed to be on her side to really trust him.

 

 _I hate you,_ she says to herself. _You’re such a weak, sniveling, selfish little coward._

And she truly wonders how she’s going to come out of this “stronger”, like everyone says.

 

She hopes they’re right.

 

But she fears they won’t be.


	3. Fluttering Fear

She’s so very glad she married a man like her husband.

 

A man who is kind, patient, gentle, and courageous; who shares many of her likes/passions, who is goofy, who is sappy, but who is, also, so very, very wise.

 

And _that’s_ what makes her (irrational) fears so much worse to her.

 

She hates how if he even so much as raises his voice in frustration, if he snaps a little when tired, or if he tells her about some tiny grievance he has with her, that she freezes. She waits for him to grab her and shake her til she cries and has bruises on her arms. She waits for him to hurl his grievances against her like javelins. She waits for him to throw something – whether verbally or physically – at her. She waits, and he never does, but still she waits.

 

And hates herself for it.

 

He’s never, ever given her reason to wait for _any_ of that.

 

Ever.

 

But still she does.

 

Because that’s what she’s been trained to do.

 

Because that’s what She did.

 

 _I believe in you,_ her husband says firmly. _You got through this once. I know you’ll be able to do it again._

She says _thank you_ (and means it…she needs that kind of faith in her), but she also wants to say _I don’t think I can get through it twice._

But she doesn’t.

He confidently says, _I don’t think it’ll take you too long to overcome this._

 

 _But what if it does?_ She wants to ask, but is too afraid to do so, for fear of the answer.

 

 _I read up on PTSD_ (the official diagnosis of her Counselor/Therapist…PTSD for multiple rapes), he tells her. _It says it shouldn’t take more than a few months to get over, to heal._

She knows he tells her this to encourage her, to let her know it won’t be such a long battle to fight, to give her hope.

 

But all she hears is that she now has a deadline.

 

 _And what happens if I reach it and aren’t as healed as you’d like or expect?_ She wants to ask. _What then?_

 

Because she knows this is hard on him on a physical level.

 

She can’t stand to “be” with him as a wife normally does. They’ve tried and she freezes, starts to have flashbacks, and then stays up all night with horrible, horrible memories that make her want to vomit.

 

 _When will your patience for_ that _run out? When will you start to ask for it, subtly guilt me into feeling bad for not being able to_ (as if she doesn’t feel that way already).

She knows if she were in his place, and he in hers, she’d be more or less the same way, act the same, say the same things.

 

And, the thing is, she _wants_ to “be” with him.

 

But she can’t.

 

She physically and mentally can’t, right now.

 

He knows that, and is more understanding than she ever thought he would be.

 

But…she can see the desire he has for her in his eyes sometimes, and it scares her, because when will he feel as if he’s waited long enough?

 

Oh, she doesn’t for one second think he’ll force her.

 

No, he’s not like that.

 

Not like Her.

 

It’s just not in his nature to be even remotely like that.

 

But, still, she waits in fear for the day when his patience runs out.

 

Because she honestly doesn’t know what he’ll do.

 

And that fear of the unknown – mixed with what She used to do when Her patience ran out – makes her flinch and freeze whenever he so much as murmurs crossly.

 

It’s not fair to either of them, this fear of hers, but it is what it is.

 

She loves her husband, but she also fears him for no reason.

 

(and she hates it…and herself).


	4. Clutching on to Hope




	5. East Wind

It’s all a confusing jumble of highs, lows; bright and dark. She can’t seem to shift though it enough to figure out just what she feels at any one time.

 

No…no, that’s not quite right, is it.

 

There _is_ one feeling that constantly stays the same.

 

The overwhelming urge to slam her head against the wall until she bashes her brains out and bleeds, bleeds, bleeds all over everything.

 

She cannot begin to describe how much she sometimes really wants to do this…just as she can’t begin to describe how horrifying it is that this violent idea somehow calms her.

 

(and terrifies, because that kind of darkness residing inside her is chilling)

 

How can she even contemplate doing something so rash and permanent?

 

And it won’t really help things – she knows that in her heart of hearts – but she can’t seem to stop imagining or feeling that urge.

 

It’s the only constant really, other than fear.

 

She has days where she cleans with a passion (she ignores the fact that this is because cleaning is something she can control, unlike the memories of her rapes).

 

She has days where she can hardly get out of bed before 11am, and even than she’s back in bed a few hours later.

 

She still can’t go outside for very long, and it’s no longer just anxiety that stops her now.

 

She’s so, so scared.

 

Memories are coming back now; faster and stronger than ever. Memories so vivid that she can feel, taste, and see things that she knows – she knows! – are not real. And the closer she comes to remembering the actual rapes, the more these flashbacks become stronger.

 

She’s absolutely frozen in fear of the day she remembers one in full.

 

If just the edge of those memories is enough to make her start to lose touch with reality, what will the actual memory do?

 

And every one of her friends and family seem to be pregnant or about to give birth, and she isn’t even close to that.

 

She thinks if she were it might be easier. She’d have something positive to focus on. Something that finally said ‘She didn’t win. I beat Her.’ But she doesn’t have that. Everyone has these precious, tiny gifts, but she doesn’t.

 

And that hurts.

 

Because it’s her own fault she doesn’t have a child yet.

 

She can’t ‘be’ with her husband.

 

She can’t!

 

She wants to – so badly – but she can’t.

 

She gets horrible flashbacks and nightmares any time they try, so they’ve stopped – and it means the world to her that she can say ‘no’, and it means something to her husband (even if it never meant anything to Her).

 

And yet she hates herself for this weakness.

 

She _knows_ her husband is nothing like Her.

 

She knows it!

 

It does nothing to stop the fear that intrinsically rises and stops her breath any time he hints towards it.

 

‘When will this stop?’ she asks herself. ‘When will it get better?’

 

When?

 

But the answer isn’t any clearer than it was a month ago.

 

A year ago.

 

And that makes her so, so angry with herself.


	6. The Rabbit Hole

So many, many voices crush her head – pushing, breaking, squeezing until it feels as she just wants to smash her head against the wall just so she can feel something else and finally see a physical expression of all the chaos going on inside.

 

All of them clamor for first place.

 

All of them are ‘important’.

 

All of them loud.

 

(maybe she’ll go deaf)

 

And yet she cannot say which one is truly her.

 

Are they all her?

 

Are none of them?

 

Who is she even?

 

The First Voice, her Abuser’s voice, tells her she is nothing. She is unworthy. Nothing she does is ever good enough. Smart enough. Pretty enough. Strong enough. Never enough for anyone, especially not Her.

 

 _You don’t love me!_ Screams the Voice of her Nightmares as She throws yet another object at her – never hitting, but always oh so close (She has perfect aim, so she knows this is done on purpose….She could hit her if She wanted to).

 

 _No one will ever believe you,_ whispers the voice of One Who Bruises. And no one ever does (until her husband).

 

 _You’ll never get away. I’ll kill them (_ her family _) if you don’t do It as I like._ And she so she remembers doing It just the way She likes it, even as it makes her throw up and feel so, so dirty.

 

Ghosting touches and flashes in the corner of her eye haunt her every moment now.

 

The Second Voice, her family and friends, tells her she cannot be as sick as she tells them. She doesn’t look ill. Others have done more when they have Lyme Disease, they all tell her. Now that she’s cured, there’s nothing holding her back, they say.

 

 _You don’t look sick,_ they constantly say. What does ill look like even? Does she need to have tubes coming out of her to be sick?

 

How can she tell them all that she fears her Lyme’s is coming back again? That the constant pain in her body is back. That her shins and ankles feel as if they’re about to snap in half. That she not only has trouble sleeping because of horrible nightmares, but now because of pain too. How can she tell them, when they’re so happy she’s “doing so good”??

 

(and she's not even sure it's really back, not yet, but she fear it is, because it feels like it)

 

She can sew, she can paint, she can cook? But, she also adds so much to the monthly/yearly bills.

 

Is what she’s doing outweighing all that she costs?

 

It is enough to justify her existence?

 

 _You look so well,_ her husband says now. _I’m so proud of you._

 

 _But I don’t Feel well. I don’t Feel proud,_ she thinks. _Everything is crumbling, ending, and I’m not sure if I’ll be there at the end._

 

The Third Voice, the one of reason, tells her she’s winning.

 

 _Look how far you’ve come?_ it says. _She made you question your worth, but we know better. They might not believe you’re sick, but bloodwork doesn’t lie. You’re winning. Don’t give up now, not when you’re so close._

 

The Fourth Voice, the one of Love, tells her that He will always be there for her.

 

 _I died for you on the Cross, I won’t just leave you to bear this alone,_ He says. _Lean on me. Trust me. You’ll get through this._

 

Her Abuser is right. She’s no good for anyone. She can’t do anything right. No one could ever want someone as stupid and dirty as her.

 

Her family and friends are right. She’s always sick. She always mooches off of others. She should push herself more. She should be more.

 

Reason is right. She’s gotten so far. She’s healing. And she truly believes that. She does. She can see it!

 

Love is right. If it weren’t for Him, she’s not sure she would be here right now, truth be told. She’ll never be able to thank Him enough for always being on her side, no matter what.

 

But which Voice will win?

 

Which one does she listen to, when they all crowd her brain, her mind?

 

She knows the answer should be Love is right, Reason is right, but sometimes it’s so very hard when the other two Voices scream at her too.

 

Scream, and scream, and scream.

 

 _When do I get to say something?_ she wants to ask.

 

_When is it my turn?_


	7. Go The Distance

She hates the fact that _She_ took away so much of her confidence in herself. Oh, the doctors and others also helped in this, but She did so much to emphasize it and encourage it.

 

The doctors scared her because for so many years they told her and her mother that she was lying, that nothing was wrong, that she was only saying these things to lash out in a teengerish way or to get attention. By the time she was actually diagnosed with Lyme Disease, she’d had the thing for 8 years – it’s not been almost 19! – and the doctors had upped their game to telling her mother she should institutionalize her daughter. Clearly something was wrong with her to maintain such lies over such a long period of time.

 

Thank God, her mother never listened and tested her Lyme Disease.

 

Her biggest, secret fear was that her mother would finally listen to them or grow tired of paying for her medical bills – after she was diagnosed. It terrified her, and honestly by the time she was diagnosed she too thought she was crazy and should be put away.

 

 _Maybe there is something wrong with me,_ she thought. _All the doctors can’t be wrong. They’ve huge degrees. They must know what they’re talking about. Maybe I do hate my mother and just don’t know it. Maybe I’ll go to Hell._

She’s so incredibly grateful she got to find out she wasn’t nuts and actually di have something – multiple things – wrong with her health.

 

And then her mother has to go and turn things on their head (again) and say she thought most of it was in her head, that she imagined herself so sick she made it worse than it really was.

 

 _See, the test results are coming back cleaner. Now you can focus on more positive thoughts and get rid of the other symptoms,_ her mother beams.

 

 _That’s not how it works,_ she tells her. _I can’t just will my illness away._

_But you did it here._

Her mother still doesn’t understand why she started to cry and ran out of the house for three hours (she even got upset at her for doing that).

 

So, with that in mind, how is she supposed to trust her mother with her rapes?

 

She tried before, in the beginning, when she first got away. But, unfortunately, she’d blocked most of the memories by that time and only remembered a few hazy things. Her mother said it wouldn’t hold up in a court of law and to just forget it.

 

_No one will want to be around you if you aren’t happy, so just let it go._

_But I just told She touched me inappropriately,_ she thinks. _Aren’t I allowed be sad for a little bit?_

But she does as asked and forgets even most of those hazy memories.

 

Odd habits pop up even still.

 

How she had to any door to the room she was in (she can’t begin to count the times she got yelled at for that), and she couldn’t explain why she had to do that to feel safe.

 

How she had to sit (and still does) in the corner of the room, her back to a wall, and be able to see almost 360 degrees around any room.

 

How she still can’t have anyone, not even her husband, sneak up on her and hug her (she almost stabbed her husband once because of that).

 

But how is she supposed to trust her family and mother with this, when they doubted the Lyme Disease?

 

What if they say it’s in her head too?

 

(sometimes, she wonders if it is something she made up)

 

And then her confidence is shaken even more when her youngest brother gets married and her mother latches onto her sister-in-law. She teaches the woman all sorts of art lessons – but whenever her own daughter asked and begged over the years, she almost always refused (told her that her art wasn’t actually real art). She draws her daughter-in-law’s favorite animals, but when her daughter asked for the same thing over the years, it was refused again.

 

And she thinks to herself, _My brother’s wife is almost a carbon copy of me…except less stringent on rules and looks less like my father._

She fears her sister-in-law is what her mother wishes she was, the perfect daughter she always wanted but never got…until now.

And then her mother asks her to draw a cover for her book and her confidence rises. She researches for weeks and spends a month painting the cover.

 

Only to be told in subtle terms, it isn’t good enough.

 

So, she’s trying a second go.

 

But what if this too is rejected?

 

Will her mother then do it herself, or turn to her daughter-in-law??

 

And she remembers what She told her:

 

_No one will believe you._

_You can’t do anything right._

And she hates how much her confidence in herself has been eroded from right under her.


	8. Scars to Your Beautiful

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alludes to a bit of the rape....but nothing graphic. Just thought I'd warn you.

In her heart of hearts, she knows she’s not fat. That she never was, but…

_I love your fat,_ She says as she does things unmentionable.

 

 _So soft, so pretty,_ She whispers into her ear as She moves her unresponsive body (there’s a reason she still hates taking any drug, even Advil…she will never let herself be controlled like that ever again…she’d rather take the pain)

 

 _So fat,_ She purrs, squeezing. _Its what I love about you._

 

And so she stops eating.

 

If fat is what got her into this, if its what made her attractive, then she’s getting rid of it all.

 

Maybe then she’ll be free.

 

So, she eats less and less and less. Makes herself throw up (she doesn’t need a finger to make herself do it, just the thought of Her makes it happen).

 

She loses thirty pounds in a month.

 

But it’s not enough.

 

Of course it not.

 

Because She lies.

 

 _I love how thin you are,_ She says, eyes gleefully taking her in. _You’re beautiful now._

And what makes it even worse?

 

Everyone else says the same thing.

 

In her heart of hearts, she knows she’s not fat…but she also knows she’s no beauty either.

 

Why else would everyone say others are pretty or beautiful, but never to her?

 

But they start saying it when she stops eating.

 

 _You’ve really grown into yourself,_ They say.

 

 _You’ve blossomed,_ They gasp, asking her to finally tirl around so they can appreciate the changes.

 

 _You’re such a pretty young woman now,_ They tell her (even her family).

 

 _I love how thin you are now,_ She says as She does things unmentionable to her. _You’re beautiful._

And so she never wins.

 

She can’t be fat.

 

She can’t.

 

It’s what got her into this mess in the first place.

 

But being thin didn’t get her out.

 

It did make everyone notice her for the first time.

 

It helped her finally be called pretty and have people notice her for something other than _You’re sick_ or _You’re such a big help to your mother_.

 

And as she comes to remember more and more things from Before she finds herself not eating again.

 

Any food reminds her of Before.

 

She eats one meal a day, but any more than that makes her gage and be sick for hours.

 

 _This is wrong_ , she thinks as she feels her clothes start to become too big on her.

 

 _This is letting Her win!_ she tells herself as she looks in the mirror. _Stop it! Don’t let Her win!_

But it’s not enough.

 

Yes, right now, she does have an excuse for not eating.

 

Excuse?

 

She’s had to start up on some herbal medicine because some of her Lyme Symptoms are coming back, due to high stress.

 

They causing her to be nauseous a lot.

 

But there were those two times she wasn’t nauseous and hungry…and she didn’t eat because she thought to herself _no, it’ll make me fat_ and instead drank tea.

 

How ironic then, that her body’s starting to adjust to those meds; that she can feel the nausea beginning to taper off.

 

Soon, she’ll have no excuse.

 

Soon, she’ll have to admit that she doesn’t want to eat.

 

That she needs to lose more.

 

(and more and more and more until there’s nothing left…please, let there be nothing left…just make it stop)

 

And she hates that She still has so much control over her life, her decisions, her body, even though it’s been years and She’s no longer anywhere close by.

 

It doesn’t matter.

 

She can still feel those Eyes on her, watching her eat, commenting on everything.

 

_Another snack? That explains the chubbiness. I love it._

_You’re not hungry? Ah, that’s why you’re so thin. I love it._

It makes her angry.

 

 _You never loved anything,_ she wants to scream. _You only did it to control yet another facet of my life, of me._

_Just leave me alone,_ she wants to whimper. _Please, just let me go free. Stop haunting me. Leave me be. Please, just go away._

But it doesn’t.


	9. The Light

She sits there and blinks.

 

 

 _When did I get here?_ she thinks to herself. _When did I start to change so much? When did I start to heal?_

 

Because she has, begun to heal that is. And she saw it so clearly for the first time today. She went into counseling and they went through her old diary entries…and had to stop.

 

 

 _This isn’t me anymore,_ she tells her counselor – who lights up like a child who’s told Christmas is going to come twice this year.

 

 

 _I’m still not healed, I’ve still got a lot of problems, but this…this darkness, this self-hatred?_ she shakes her head. _That’s not me anymore. I’m not this person._

 

_I agree,_ the counselor says.

 

 

 _I can do this,_ she answers, and throws the papers down on the floor. _I’m not that person anymore._

 

And she laughs.

 

 

For the first time ever in counseling, she laughs for joy.

 

 

_I’m healing! I can do this!_

 

She can see the light at the end of the tunnel.

 

 

She can’t tell – yet – how far away that light is.

 

 

But she can see it.

 

 

The walls around her aren’t black anymore, they’re grey.

 

 

She can feel the breeze coming from just beyond the light, encouraging her to run towards the outside she knows now is there.

 

 

 _I can do this! I can win!_ she wants to scream out to the world. _She doesn’t own me! I get to choose what I am, what I do!_

 

Are there still problems?

 

 

Yes.

 

 

She still has nightmares.

 

 

The thought of intimacy still makes her stiffen in fear.

 

 

She still can’t always stand to have her husband touch or kiss her without it being she who initiates it. She who is in control.

 

 

She still has a bit of an eating problem, still sees herself as fat, but she also is at the point where she wants to eat again. She loves food and she’s not letting Her take that away again.

 

 

She’s still terrified of Her and of telling the rest of her family about It (she told the oldest of her younger sister and was accepted).

 

She knows she'll have days where it doesn't feel like this.

 

 

But…

 

 

 _When did this happen?_ she finds herself asking. _Was it really so slow that I just didn’t notice it until BLAM! here we are?_

 

And she nods. _Yes, it was that slow. I did miss it._

 

And she grins. _But I see it now. I’m getting better now! This really will end, won’t it. I don’t have to be afraid of never healing, of never moving on._

 

And that light and breeze at the end of the tunnel gets stronger.

 

 

 _I still have a ways to go,_ she acknowledges. _I’m not there yet. I still have a lot of baggage to go through and overcome. I’ll probably always have small triggers._

 

_But I’m winning!_

 

_I can win!_

 

_…._

 

_I will win!_


	10. Long Enough

Time passes.

 

Infinitely slow, and much too fast.

 

She hates herself.

 

She saw the light at the end of the tunnel – she got close enough to touch her fingertips against that burning brightness – and then someone made the tunnel longer.

 

It's not fair!

 

Why?

 

Who?

 

( _me, she knows in the back of her mind)_

What's wrong with her?

 

Why's she doing this to herself?

 

Doesn't she want to get better?

 

Wasn't she better?

 

So, why does it feel like she's walking backward all of a sudden?

 

Shouldn't she be happy she can be with her husband again?

 

_(if he touches her one more time she might scream)_

_(always touching, taking, wanting more, more, more, and hasn't she given enough yet?)_

She should be glad she's gotten this far, that  _She_ doesn't have control of her life.

 

Her husband is so incredibly happy to have her again and that she's gaining some weight at last.

 

 _A healthy skinny_ , he calls it.

 

And all she can think it that she's so incredibly FAT, globs of it, and all she can do is watch as it gets worse and worse.

 

Why can't she do anything right?

 

What's wrong with me, she thinks.

 

( _everything_ )

 

She tries so hard to please her husband again.

 

_(it's like I've been living with a sister for almost two years, he says. I'm so happy we're together again.)_

_(to be a wife, you have to have sex all the time, every day, is what she knows now…and hates it)_

_I hate this,_ she tells the image in the mirror.

 

 _Haven't you always_? it smirks back.

 

But she was getting better. She is better.

 

 _Are you_? a little voice (getting so much louder each day) asks. _Would someone who is "better" hate food? Dislike being with her husband? Begrudge him this time? Want to eat less? Want to smash her head against the wall and scream?_

 

_No?_

 

_Then how, pray tell, are you "better"?_

 

She thought she was past all this.

 

She wants to cry _(and cry and cry and never stop)._

_Is anyone ever past it_? the voice says.

 

What's happening to me? she wants to ask someone ( _anyone_ ).

 

Why can't she sleep anymore?

 

_(because more memories are piling in and if she doesn't distract herself until she so tired she might pass out she's not sure what she'll do….nothing good, that's for sure)_

Why is she gaining so much weight?

 

( _because you're fat and eating too much, is all she can reason out_ )

 

Why is she panicking around people again?

 

( _because She used them against you and when you see anyone now all you can think about is He_ r)

 

 _I don't want this_ , she whispers, wanting to hug herself, but not, because if she did she might never stop rocking herself and crying.

 

 _Does it matter_? that little voice asks.

 

If she stops now she might never have the courage to try again.

 

She doesn't want to stop, because she  _does_ love her husband. She  _does_ want to be with him ( _and yet she also doesn't_ ). And stopping would make it feel as if She's winning.

 

Plus, she's scared to tell her husband. He's so happy she'd moved on. He's so happy to have her again. And he got so, so upset that one time – last month, before they'd started up again – when she suggested they start at a later date.

 

_(she'll never tell him he frightened her)_

 

Is this all she's good for? Sex?

 

_(the walls feel like they're always closing in on her now)_

 

She can still see the light at the end of the tunnel.

 

She knows this is just a small setback ( _she hopes it is)._

 

But still, she wishes the tunnel hadn't gotten longer all of sudden.

 

_(and she's scared because it seems like it keeps getting longer and longer)_


End file.
